


just the way you are

by harinezumi_kun



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:44:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harinezumi_kun/pseuds/harinezumi_kun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>aiba is feeling down, jun inadvertently helps him cheer up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just the way you are

**Author's Note:**

> written for the arashi_on fundraiser. the request was for some junba centered around aiba's drama getting bad ratings, and well, this just turned into a big pile of fluff somehow XD; i hope you enjoy it anyway!

“Cut!”

A beat, then Aiba feels the tension finally leave his body. He can tell by the director’s grin that this was the last cut, and Aiba smiles, too. As much as he loves his job, he always appreciates that moment when he can be himself again.

He arranges the glasses and bottles behind the bar carefully back to their original positions before stepping away from the set and calling a “good work today!” to the room in general. There are scattered replies, as the staff scurry around for all the last minute things, a few swooping down on him to direct him to wardrobe, others to make sure he has his scripts for tomorrow and next week, some heading over to his manager to confirm scheduling times.

Before they are even out the door of the studio, Aiba’s manager is already reviewing his appointments for tomorrow, leaving him barely ten minutes between any of his filming, interviews, appearances, and he resigns himself to another day of meals on the run and energy drinks to keep him on his feet. Although, really, he’s looking forward to it. Entertaining people is the only thing he’s ever been good at, and times like this, when all he does is bounce from one job to another, those are the times he feels like he’s actually _doing_ it.

“Also,” his manager says as Aiba climbs into the company van that will take him home, “here are the ratings from last week.”

The grin Aiba had been holding onto fades, and he feels his chest clench as he takes the little sheet of paper she hands him. He knows this is not an intentional needle to his bubble of good humor, knows that the managers are required to make them aware of how well their projects are going, but he also knows that they only hand over the ratings in writing when they’re bad. A reminder, something to hang on to and stare at miserably later.

He shoves it into his bag without looking at it.

*

“That’s all for today.”

Jun blinks at his manager. It’s only one o’clock in the afternoon.

“Oh,” he says, trying to look relieved instead of disappointed. “Did you want me to fill out that—?”

“Jun-kun,” his manager chuckles without looking away from his computer, “go home. You work too hard, you know that?”

Jun smiles ruefully, slides on his shades. “Yeah, I guess so. Well, uh…I’ll be going, then.”

“Good work today,” his manager says distractedly, and Jun steps out of the office and starts down the hall.

But Jun does not _want_ to go home. He wants to be doing something, he feels jittery and anxious, like he’s forgotten something important. There’s nothing, though, he knows that. Nothing until the commercial shoot tomorrow, a few magazine interviews.

_Not enough_ , says a little voice in his head. _Not good enough._

He’s almost at the elevator that would take him down to the lobby, but he makes a sudden ninety degree turn instead, heading for Arashi’s greenroom. Maybe he’ll get started on that paperwork after all.

*

Two days after the fact, the piece of paper Aiba’s manager gave him in the van is wrinkled, folded and refolded, stained in a few places. Looks a lot like most of Aiba’s middle school homework used to look. He should throw it away. It’s stupid to keep it. But he just keeps staring at it, the little “8.8” staring back at him almost malevolently.

He hears footsteps approaching the greenroom, recognizes the purposeful tempo as Jun’s, and crams the sheet of paper back into his bag, quickly arranging himself as casually as he can on the sofa.

“Hey,” Jun says when he walks into the room, headed for his dressing table.

“’Sup,” Aiba returns, fiddling with his phone. 

Jun grabs a sheaf of papers from the drawer at his mirror and crosses to the sofa. He sits down at the opposite end of the couch from Aiba and pushes his sunglasses up onto his head, then starts scratching at his papers with a pen. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, and Aiba jumps a little.

“Nothing,” he says, although it’s a little too late for that.

“What is it?” Jun asks again. His tone brooks no argument, and Aiba slouches farther down into the cushions.

“’S not important,” he mutters.

Jun sighs. “Masaki,” he says, and Aiba knows that means serious business.

“It’s just,” Aiba begins. He picks at a bit of dirt stuck under his thumbnail. “The drama, you know? It’s almost over, and the week six ratings dropped again. So…I don’t know. I just…feel bad.”

Jun doesn’t respond right away, and Aiba glances over to see that Jun’s pen has stilled. Jun is frowning down at his questionnaire, but Aiba knows it’s not the words on the page that are putting the furrow in Jun’s brow.

“There are worse things than low ratings,” Jun says eventually, voice carefully neutral. “It’s not your fault,” he adds, then goes back to writing about his ideal sea-side date.

Aiba hums vaguely in response but finds that, instead of thinking about ratings, now he’s thinking about Jun. Aiba watches him, questionnaire propped on his crossed legs, stares at the pen in Jun’s long, be-ringed fingers and lets his gaze wander over Jun’s knobby wrist, up his arm and the artfully rolled sleeves of his lilac dress-shirt, over his shoulders and neck and finally to his face.

Even now, Aiba sees the overenthusiastic sixteen-year-old, just happy to be where he is, doing this job, and waiting desperately for someone to tell him he’s doing it well. It’s not quite the same, maybe—Jun’s teeth and hair are much better now, the lines of his face sharper—but Jun has never stopped trying to please people. Even when he’s not acting, he’s throwing himself into the role he knows the fans want to see, and ever since Domyouji he’s been playing the tough, sharp-tongued cool guy, even off-screen.

Jun will just say “people change” and shrug it off, but Aiba knows better. Jun wants this more than any of them, has wanted it for longer, since the beginning—Sho and Nino and Ohno were practically tricked into auditioning, and Aiba had just wanted to play basketball—and here’s Aiba complaining about low ratings when Jun doesn’t even have a solo job of his own. Jun will never say out loud that he doesn’t have enough work to do, but Aiba knows. It is something about them that is the same, like feeling lonely even when they wanted to be alone in the first place, like wanting everyone to be happy, like how much they love Arashi.

“Staring,” Jun says, snapping Aiba out of his contemplative daze.

“’S a nice view,” Aiba retorts, and Jun rolls his eyes. After a minute, Aiba moves over next to Jun in one long slide. When Jun doesn’t react, Aiba lets out an exaggerated yawn, stretches his arms up over his head, then drops one casually around Jun’s shoulders.

“Smooth,” Jun says coolly, but Aiba can see the grin Jun’s fighting down at the corner of his mouth.

“I like to think so,” Aiba murmurs, knocking their heads lightly together. He closes his eyes for a while and just lets Jun feel him there, lets him feel how they are supporting each other like this, leaning in with their sides pressed tight together.

When Aiba decides that that’s not quite enough and dips his head to nuzzle at Jun’s neck, Jun makes a disapproving little grumble, but still raises his chin obligingly and puts down his pen. Aiba smiles to himself.

“Matsujun,” he says, “I love you just the way you are, you know?”

“Gross,” Jun says, but his voice is light and breathy. “Knock it off—anyone could just walk in here.”

To make sure his point gets across, Aiba sits up again to press a short, firm kiss to Jun’s mouth. He leaves his eyes slitted to watch how Jun’s close easily, how he tilts his head just a little for a comfortable fit. They part on a tiny sigh.

“Feel better?” Aiba asks.

“ _You_ were the one who was depressed,” Jun points out, going back to his papers.

Aiba just shrugs, unwinding his arm from Jun’s shoulders, but keeping himself pressed to Jun’s side and glancing over the younger man’s questionnaire answers.

“You forgot sandcastles,” Aiba says eventually, pointing to question four. 

Jun frowns. “What?”

“Sandcastles,” Aiba says again. “You can’t have a date on the beach without sandcastles.”

“Idiot,” Jun mutters.

He changes his answer anyway.


End file.
